


Your heart and my heart

by Luce_cm



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Battle, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Major Character Injury, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:20:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29843469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luce_cm/pseuds/Luce_cm
Summary: Ivar and Reader played pretend getting married when they were children, and though Fate pulled them apart when they were young, they meet again, this time in a battlefiend in England.
Relationships: Ivar (Vikings)/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	Your heart and my heart

**Author's Note:**

> In this entirely AU thing where the brothers (minus Björn) are still in England with the Great Heathen Army but Aslaug isn’t dead (Lagertha never took over), and neither is Sigurd. This is an almost 6a in age Ivar (20-21), but of course a different canon where he has stayed raiding in England.

Aslaug still remembers the only wedding any of her sons has had so far.

Barely ten moons old, Ivar went to her and declared proudly that he had found a woman he wanted to marry.

It was adorable, the way the two of you would grin at each other, and the mad little laughs that left you as Helga diligently sat behind you and braided wildflowers into your hair, a mimicry of a wedding crown.

She remembers Hvitserk insisting on calling you ‘sister’ from that day forward; and Ubbe’s quiet presence and breathed laughs during the pretend ceremony. Even Sigurd was happy that day, she remembers, long before her mistakes made his heart cold.

She doesn’t know what it is that makes her think of you on that cold evening, her eyes on Blaeja as she weaves next to the fire.

It has been more than a year since Ivar has been to Kattegat, more than a year since he pretended his mother didn’t know him like she knew her own heart as he asked with false nonchalance about the Dane shieldmaiden that bared the same name of the girl he once called his wife; and so more than a year since Aslaug has even uttered your name.

Still, that night she thinks of you. She eyes the girl that is to marry Sigurd and imagines you sitting next to Blaeja by the fire, offering the girl strength where she lacks it, letting her offer you calm where you need it. She imagines that while she cannot have her sons with her, she can have the women that call them theirs, a part of her family.

She offers the Christian girl a cold nod of her head as she retires to bed, not able to dispel the old image of your beaming smile or her son’s more subdued one from her mind.

_She walks as if in a dream, and the ground is cold and biting under her bare feet. But she still walks. And, dazed, she finds her son._

_“Mother,” Hvitserk calls, but he doesn’t see her, he has only eyes for the thick line of trees that separate him from where he needs to be. “You told me to call for you, instead of the Gods, when I couldn’t put faith in them. Mother,_ please _, not today.”_

_A shaking hand lifts to cup his cheek, the contrast between her fair and soft skin against his bloodied and muddied face making her heart hurt._

_And there’s a familiar scream piercing the quiet, and she turns around to look at the same line of trees that her son was looking at. When she looks over her shoulder, Hvitserk is gone._

_And so she walks._

_She sees Ivar, snarling and holding on tightly to the sword, nervous movements of his hand on the crutch. He is surrounded, and he knows it._

_Yelled orders, barked commands, but his men still fall. And the Saxons creep closer, and the enemy commander calls for Ivar the Boneless’ head._

_And all Aslaug can do is_ watch.

She wakes up with a war cry ringing in her ears, and a girl’s face covered in warpaint and blood calling out a name in anger and something else. The face is unfamiliar, especially covered in red, but the eyes are the same.

____

“What are you doing?” Your brother asks from behind you, and you turn to watch him approach.

“I’ll let you guess,” You quip with a side smile, “What is it that people do before long journeys? Ready their…” Your words hang in the air, waiting for him to complete the sentence.

Emir shakes his head, not in the mood to play along, “Not what I mean.”

He never is. Being King has made him insufferably boring. Well, he never was a delight to be around, but still.

“Boats, brother, the answer is boats.”

He sighs, ignoring you and continuing, “You can’t leave for Vestfold. You have been summoned elsewhere.”

“You make it sound like I have to give a shit.”

“Queen Aslaug summons you to Kattegat.”

You draw in a sharp breath, “Ah.”

And there it is, the smile of the brother you know, “You do give a shit, if I had to bet on it.”

“Oh, don’t start gambling, you’ll end up like father,” You tell him, the jest almost instinctual. You meet his eyes and quieten your voice, asking, “Wh-…do you know why she calls for me?”

“They are all alive, if that is what you’re asking,” He motions with his head and after a few barked orders to your shieldmaidens you start walking at his side, “Maybe someone is planning to attack Kattegat. She asked you to bring your warriors, your shieldmaidens, with you.”

“It doesn’t make sense. If she needs an army, she-…”

“I don’t know. That woman doesn’t share much, and her messengers are no different,” He interrupts, before taking a deep breath, watching you intently for a few breaths. “We’ll have a sacrifice tonight to wish you good fortune, to ask the Gods to keep you safe.”

You nod, a little dazed, still trying to make sense of it all. He leaves you alone with a soft touch of his hand on your shoulder.

You haven’t been to Kattegat in…Gods, almost eight years now. Since your father, in desperate search of coin, took you and your brother with him back to the Danes where you were born.

Away from the world you knew, away from the people you loved. Away from Ivar.

You won’t lie and pretend you haven’t clung to the words the bards speak of his conquests, of his victories. You won’t lie and pretend the Gods haven’t heard you pray for a man you haven’t seen in so many years you can barely remember what he looked like.

You won’t lie and pretend you’ve forgotten him.

____

“Queen Aslaug.” You bow your head as you enter the great hall, and the woman eyes you carefully, coldly almost, before offering a smile.

And her face is more weathered, her hair is less vibrant, but her smile is the same warm and motherly one you remember from your younger years.

“Princess.”

You breathe out, “Still getting used to that title, to be honest.”

“Why? You have been a Princess for a long time.”

“My brother was crowned last Spring,” You argue, frowning, “I would scarcely call that a long time.”

Her smile is teasing as she explains, “I seem to recall you earning it through marriage, not blood.”

“Oh. _Oh_ ,” You laugh, even if a strange embarrassment makes your skin feel flushed. Of course, she remembers that day, and all the days that came after. Even as you said goodbye years after that childish recreation of a wedding her sons insisted on calling you ‘Princess’. You run a hand over your face, “Gods, I…I had almost forgotten.”

“Mhm, but you haven’t forgotten my sons,” Aslaug’s eyes look even more vibrant lined with the dark kohl, and her gaze that sometimes appears to be all-seeing sets on you with intensity, even as she smiles, “Your brother fought with the Great Army for a while, joined the quest to avenge Ragnar.”

“My family and yours have always been close,” You offer, a small shrug and a side smile before you add, “Bound by marriage too, now that I recall.”

She chuckles, and offers you a drink you gratefully accept.

In the quiet that follows, you feel the Queen’s eyes on you, and it makes you uncomfortable.

“You have changed a bit, but your eyes are the same,” She smiles, almost tender, almost sad, “I have dreamt of you.”

Cold grips at your heart. It is jarring, a frightening and intimidating thing, to know the Gods sent her a message regarding you.

“Is that why I am here?”

She considers you, her hand holding the goblet to her mouth and hiding part of her expression from you, her eyes piercing on yours. You see so much of her youngest son in her in that moment, that you have to look away.

Instead of replying to your question, she starts, “The men and women that you’ve brought, they aren’t here on your brother’s orders.”

“No, they…they follow me.”

She nods, straightens in her place, every bit the noblewoman. Aslaug eyes you carefully, before saying in a voice that sounds commanding words that speak of a request, “I have a favor to ask of you.”

“A favor?” You repeat, before swallowing past a dry throat, “O-Of course.”

“Set sail to England, with your shieldmaidens and your warriors.”

“To York?”

“No,” She stands up, walking through the doorway behind the thrones, leaving you to follow her. Aslaug stands by a map and points directly to a location you don’t recognize. “Here.”

You nod your head, studying the unfamiliar map and knowing you will have to ask Vígdís, one of your more experienced shieldmaidens, who has fought in Wessex for longer than you’ve been able to hold a sword, to help you.

“We will set sail tomorrow.” You promise her, but she shakes her head.

Aslaug’s voice is unwavering, thundering even if quiet, when she orders, “Tonight.”

____

The ground of England is no different from the one of the Danes, or anywhere else you’ve been. But there’s a tension in the air that has nothing to do with the battle happening at your backs, and everything to do with the fact that you’re far enough inside Alfred’s territory to know when the earth itself is an enemy.

You don’t like this, at all. But the Great Heathen Army has moved for the Isles, and on orders of the Queen of Kattegat -and probably something more otherworldly than her- you are here.

“You’re leaving behind the only ones that know we aren’t enemies.” The shieldmaiden grunts, quickening her pace to take a place at your side.

“I know.”

“If the Saxons ambush us now…” She leaves the words hanging.

“I know.”

“Or if we come across any Vikings…”

“For Odin’s sake, _I know_ ,” You tell her, still betraying a smile at the huff of nervous laughter she lets out, “Now shut up.”

“You still haven’t told me why we took this route.”

“You still haven’t asked anything.”

“Gods, you are annoying when you want to be,” She groans, but you stay silent, offering her a glance out of the corner of your eye, until she rolls her eyes and insists, “Why?”

“There’s tracks, and they aren’t of our own.”

“So?”

“They are soft, calm steps,” One of the elder warriors points out in response to her question, motioning for the ground ahead, “They weren’t running away, they were going somewhere. Moving calmly, methodically.”

“Towards an ambush, which is exactly what we should be trying to avoid!”

“Not against us,” You tell her, a playful jab of your finger on the side of her head, “They don’t know we are even here. What kind of idiot would follow Saxon tracks when our people are back there fighting against Alfred’s army?”

She scoffs, “ _You_.”

You offer her a smile, but there’s a softening in her posture, a lowering of her shoulders, that tells you she understands.

Whatever lightheartedness there was in that moment is quickly dissipated when the distant sounds of battle no longer come from your backs where Hvitserk and Ubbe clash against Alfred’s forces, but ahead.

You signal your warriors to move forward, taking point yourself and trying to get as many breaths to think as possible before you have to join the battle.

The Vikings are surrounded in the tall grass, kept cornered by the creeping hills from where you watch and the advancing Saxons on the other side.

There’s a familiar voice shouting commands, snarling orders and your heart stops in your chest.

Ivar calls his men to form a shield wall, and you watch with baited breath as his archers ready themselves. A signal, and yours do the same, still laying low on the hills.

“Wait.” You tell them, hearing the strain in their bowstrings as they wait for the command.

A few breaths, and though Ivar’s back is turned to you and he is quite a distance away, you hear the shouted command, and so do your warriors.

“Loose!”

A few Saxons fall, but not nearly enough.

Again, and again, your shieldmaidens obey the commands of a foreign commander, letting the arrows loose when Ivar’s voice echoes through the battlefield.

But it isn’t enough. Nowhere near enough.

“Take the archers, go around them.” You tell Vígdís, who nods her head and signals for them to follow.

You keep your eyes on the battlefield, watching with a knot in your chest as the Saxons push and clash against the remaining Vikings. They won’t survive this on their own, but if they find your forces -Danish, foreign forces- they may fight against you when the common enemy is dealt with.

It is still a bargain you have to make.

Gripping tightly onto the handle of your shield, you take a deep breath, and charge.

There’s something different, about fighting Christians. About offering them a hoarse laugh as you meet their hesitant gaze, about watching them cower when a woman snarls in a foreign tongue and lunges for them.

You duck under the attack of a Saxon, and use his strength and size against him by making him fall over your shield. Whatever he was to yell is silenced when your sword pierces his neck.

Keeping a few of your shieldmaidens with you, you manage to cut through the thick of the Saxon army and find yourself in the small circle of warriors that Ivar is at the center of.

You are foreigners, potential enemies, but in the moment your eyes meet you hope with everything you have that he recognizes you, if only so that he lets you fight at his side, and keep the both of you alive.

You don’t know if he recognizes you, but he motions with his head for you to move to the side, and when you do one of his axes flies past you, striking a Saxon that was charging with a spear.

A barely-there moment when your eyes meet, and you nod your head.

_The enemy of your enemy is your friend, right?_

You sincerely hope that’s what he meant.

You call for your shieldmaidens to hold a shield wall, to gather their strength and hold a stance against the onslaught, but there’s so many of them, and they keep advancing.

You hear distantly of Vígdís shouting commands to your archers, and Ivar does the same at your side, but for a frightening moment you don’t think it will be enough.

But the Danes, your men, are making quick work of Alfred’s ambush force. Your numbers are now almost equal, and they lost the advantage they were counting on: an ambush over a small party.

A warrior charges towards you, but you’re expecting him. You trap his arm with the edge of your shield, and with but a twist of your body you feel his shoulder snap out of place. The man screams in pain, flailing his free hand and almost managing to hit you.

Before you can kill him, Ivar’s sword goes through him.

“Thank you.” You quip happily, but he only grunts in response, and brings his eyes back to the battlefield around you.

You move to a place loosely at his back, and you breathe a little easier as you watch the advancing Danes make quick work of the remaining Saxons.

But they still push, and they’re still too close, they’re still keeping you surrounded.

A shieldmaiden in front of you is struck down with a spear to the chest, leaving an opening.

“Gods,” You watch with wide eyes as Saxon reinforcements approach, and you raise your voice, calling out, almost frantic, “Flank them!”

The Danes around you give way to follow your orders, leaving you surrounded by Vikings that may think you an enemy.

But you don’t have time to wonder if it was the wrong choice, a warrior in front of you falling with an arrow in his shoulder and another lower on his chest.

An arrow whistles by your ear, barely passing you by. It finds a home in Ivar’s side, who stumbles forward with a hiss of pain; but you barely have time to think when the Viking archer at your side falls down, a sword grotesquely stuck in his skull.

The Saxon that killed him still moves forward with only a shield, and you try going for his arm, but when you lift your sword he drives the edge of his shield against your ribs.

Pain sears through you and your breath leaves you in a gasp, and you stumble to the ground, falling on one knee and barely lifting your shield in time to stop his second strike.

A grunt somewhere above you, and Ivar’s sword goes through the warrior. The man uses the last of his strength to move his arm, a sharp hit of the metal shield on the underside of Ivar’s jaw. His head snaps back and his whole body threatens to follow the movement.

For a moment you fear he is knocked unconscious.

A grunt of pain and surprise leaves Ivar, but he still moves his arm back and takes the sword out of the Saxon, who falls to the ground and you finish him off with a stab of your sword on his neck.

Breaths heavy, you lift your gaze to the man you once knew. Ivar meets your gaze, but there’s something unfocused, dazed, in his pale blue eyes.

He shakes his head as if to will his focus to return to him, and scans his eyes over the battle that is slowly dying around you.

You, on the other hand, are focused on the blood dripping down to the ground, and the arrow that pierced clean through his side.

A few quickened breaths, and your chest aches with each of them.

Another Saxon gets too close, and while you hit his left arm with the edge of your shield to make him drop his guard, Ivar hooks the curve of an axe on the man’s sword, disarming him.

He still holds on to the shield, the metal shield so much heavier than your own. Instead of keeping it towards you, he twists, almost turning his back to you and driving the edge of the metal shield against the side of Ivar’s head.

This time he does drop to the ground, and your breath leaves you as if it were you who had been struck.

When you adjust your grip to drive your sword through his back, the man grunts out something in his own tongue, and tackles you to the ground.

You can’t do anything except painfully fall down, the air stolen from your lungs, and the Saxon towers over you, but you hear a woman’s war cry, and he is taken down quicky enough.

You stare up at a redhead woman with ink on her face, who offers you a hand that you gratefully take.

Your eyes travel to Ivar for a moment, and dread forms on the pit of your stomach when you don’t see him move.

“You better not be dead.” You warn uselessly, trying to breathe past the pain on your ribs and lunging forward, driving your sword through a Saxon that had a shieldmaiden pinned down.

____

As the Saxons start dwindling, as they start dropping and the battle starts dying; your differences between these Vikings and your own warriors are more and more apparent.

As if the Gods themselves drew a line between you, your men start growing close to you, keeping guarded eyes on the few remaining members of the Great Army.

“You, Dane.” A man calls out, walking towards you, “None of you are familiar to us.”

“How perceptive. The Gods are surely impressed with your intelligence.” You taunt with a smirk.

Before the other man can say anything, one of the warriors that travel with you grunts and stands up, walking towards the two of you and speaking loud enough for a few people nearby to hear.

“This little shit is the Princess of Ribe, sister of King Emir. We are your allies, the Princes have welcomed us.”

When the man turns to meet your gaze again you gesture with your free hand dismissively. “I’m very pleased to meet you too. Where is Ivar?”

The warriors eye you warily, but one still points you in the direction they took him to.

You pass by a few injured or unconscious on the way, all scattered, carefully placed away from one another in different spots of the clearing. You don’t know what drove your countrymen to learn to keep their injured like this when fighting here, but you don’t think you want to imagine.

They laid him down between the trees, far enough away from the rest.

You approach, and he lies still, almost lifeless, on the ground.

The blood that pools under him and stains his armor worries you, though you notice they broke off the ends of the arrow.

Kneeling on the ground, you carefully shuffle closer, untying the bandage they put around your forearm to keep safe some insignificant cut; and reaching to press it against his side, trying to stop the bleeding.

When you get close enough, Ivar breathes in sharply, and his eyes open and meet yours.

_He was never unconscious, was he?_

_Pretending to be helpless to lure anyone wishing to attack to get close.  
_

You don’t have time to react before he lifts his arm and with a grunt of exertion and pain elbows the side of your face, making pain blossom on your jaw.

You scramble back and stand up, hand instinctively going to your waist to find your sword was lost somewhere in the chaos.

“You punched me!” You yell, looking at him with wide eyes.

But there’s nothing but rage in his expression, not a hint of recognition in his pale blue eyes.

“I’ll kill you.” He vows in a growl, before reaching for the side of the place he lay, probably hoping to find a weapon but finding nothing.

“I am not your enemy.” You tell him slowly, but he shakes his head.

“I don’t know you. I know everyone that fights with us.”

“That _has_ to be a lie, there’s no w-…” You’re interrupted by a rough hand on the back of your leg, making you stumble and bringing you down to the cold ground with a painful thud. “Fuck!”

He moves over you, one hand trying to find purchase on your throat to keep you still while he reaches down for the knife at your waist.

You have no choice but to move, bending your leg to kick his arm away with a hit of your knee, and your free hand pushing at his face, making him lose balance.

You turn around, your stomach against the ground as you try standing up again, but Ivar moves behind you, an arm around your neck and his body over yours keeping you immobile.

“Gods above, you’re still as stubborn.” You croak, driving your elbow back with as much force as you can and managing to make his hold on you slacken.

You scramble to stand up, but Ivar is quicker, grabbing onto your leg again and making you fall on your knees.

There’s a squeak of an apology leaving your lips before you lift your free leg and kick as hard as you can, one, two times, driving his head backwards with your last kick.

He grunts in pain, and there’s blood on his face when you look back, but he doesn’t relent, and a hard tug of your leg and you’re back on the ground.

_How many times does he have to be hit in the head for him to stop fighting? Gods!_

His hand is quicker this time, and he grabs onto the knife at your waist before crawling up until he cages you against the ground.

You lift your forearm just in time to stop him from stabbing your neck, and as his lips curve into a bloodied snarl, Ivar pushes forward.

Your strength is no match for his, and your arm trembles under the strain of trying to hold him off.

“This is no way to greet your wife, love.” You quip, because not even death can make you keep your mouth shut.

“What?” Ivar asks, frowning down at you. His eyes widen for barely a moment, and he _falters_.

You will not linger long enough to know if he recognizes you or not, because if he doesn’t, you’re dead.

Lifting your knee to kick his ribs, right where the blood still oozes languidly from the wound, you manage to make him grunt in pain and instinctively move away. He’s unbalanced, and you take the opportunity to lift your head to dig your teeth on the side of the hand that still tries driving the knife into your neck.

Blood fills your mouth, coppery and warm, but you don’t let go until he releases the knife.

You push him off when the knife falls to the ground next to your head, but he refuses to accept defeat, and it is with a kick of your foot on his ribs again that you get him off you.

Grabbing on tightly to the knife, you scramble back.

“Now you listen, you stubborn fuck. Y-…”

“Who are you?”

You blink, startled. Still, your lips pull into a smile.

“Thank you for finally asking a question before trying to drive a knife through my neck.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

Your breaths stop being so heaving, and you move further back, resting your back against a tree. Ivar still eyes you warily from his spot, stretched on the ground holding himself up on one elbow with his other hand holding onto his side.

“You had an arrow go through you.” You mumble, lingering with a strange blend of pride and awe at how good of a fighter he continues to be, even with the disadvantage of his legs and -now- his injuries.

“You still haven’t answered.” Ivar presses, but slightly less guarded.

“I’m almost offended you don’t remember me, you know,” He searches your eyes, and his lips part ever so slightly, before his gaze falls from yours, and that is all you need to know. Your lips curve into a smile, “You _do_ remember me, husband.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“We _are_ married.”

“No, we are not.”

“Yes, we are.”

“No, we-…” He stops himself, taking a deep breath and wincing. Still, breathing past the pain he sits up, leans against a tree just like you. “I’m not arguing about this.”

“Who would have thought our arguments would end this easily?” You taunt, an obnoxiously smug smile on your lips even as your head drops back against the tree and lolls to the side in exhaustion. “Is it the fact that I’m your long-lost wife, or is it the blood loss?”

He doesn’t reply, taking a few moments to look you over, tired blue eyes roaming over you.

“You’re a shieldmaiden now.”

“Don’t pretend you haven’t heard of my fame, Ivar.” You warn him, your tone a tad more biting.

His eyes fall closed in a slow blink, before he concedes, “True, I have heard of your victories. And your temper,” He adds, lifting his eyebrows. “Though I remember about that one.”

“Yet you still married me,” You say, making him roll your eyes at your insistence. “You promised me countless sons,” You remind him, filled with pride at the tired smile you bring to his lips. With a shrug, you insist, “And daughters! Yet you see me and attack me.”

“I didn’t know it was you,” He tells you, and his voice is infinitely softer now, almost startling you at the change. “What are you doing here?”

“Currently? Saving your ass,” You tell him smugly, but Ivar only grunts. You chuckle. “I have shieldmaidens and warriors with me, I think my purpose here is clear.”

“You could have joined us years ago.” He offers, and you dare think there’s an edge of accusation in his tone. A strange hurt, an old wound.

“My ambitions took me elsewhere.”

“And now?” Ivar presses, eyes searching yours.

Before you can reply, there’s a familiar voice calling Ivar’s name. You turn your head to watch as Hvitserk limps towards you, face bloodied and muddied.

“I feared you’d killed one another.”

“Almost,” Ivar grunts, a few pained breaths leaving his lips as he manages to stand. When he does, he frowns at his brother, though there’s relief in the way he looks him over, “What took you so long, huh? We were stranded here.”

“Yet you live, brother.”

“Because we had support.”

“You’re welcome.” You tell him, arrogant.

Hvitserk turns to you with a smile, and offers you a hand. You take it and stand up, feeling the strain in your ribs as you do so.

His eyes go to your mouth, and his lips curve into a smile, “Should I ask whose blood that is?”

____

When you saw him last you were barely fifteen, foolishly in love with the boy you once pretended to marry, and heartbroken at the order to prepare to leave Kattegat for good.

You still remember your goodbye. It is one of those things you haven’t ever dare forget.

The sound of Ivar crawling to the door of your home was a familiar one, and it was a familiar shuffling sound what announced his arrival that day.

You exchanged looks that said what you didn’t dare, you offered hopelessness against his anger, you denied his accusations of you leaving him behind. Still, you left, and you didn’t return.

And now the sound is different, it is no longer the shuffling of the boy you knew, it is a strange thud and two irregular steps. Still, it is him, and you know without even turning around.

“Hello, Ivar.” You greet as he walks into your tent, and motion with your hand for him to take a seat.

If you eye his side carefully, and feel a pit of worry in your stomach still, even now that you see him well after being tended to by the healers, no one can blame you. Tis a wife’s duty to worry, right?

You bite back an amused smile at your own thoughts.

Though, even if you were truly his wife, you know what he would call your worry.

_“I don’t need your pity.” Ivar snarls, and you almost want to roll your eyes and snap back at him, but instead you take a seat next to him on the sand._

_“It is not pity, you know that,” You tell him, bringing your knees to your chest and knocking his shoulder with yours, offering a side smile, “There’s nothing to pity about you, Ivar.”_

“I won’t thank you.” Is what he says to break the silence, and you can’t help but chuckle.

“I…wasn’t expecting gratitude,” Is what you answer, your eyes greedily taking him in now that the mark of death is off of him and the loom of war has passed. Your smile turns softer, “You haven’t changed much, you know.”

“You haven’t either.”

Your eyebrows lift, and you insist, disbelieving, “You didn’t recognize me, Ivar.”

“You had war paint on, and…”

“You were hit in the head, several times?” He acquiesces with a movement of his head, and you notice the faint cut over his lip of your desperate attempts to get him off you, and the blossoming bruising of that Saxon’s shield. Your voice is quiet when you ask, “How are you, by the way?”

“Fine. Some mad woman bit my hand, but I’m fine.”

You smile, delighted at this strange familiarity between you, as if all the years hadn’t passed. Maybe it was truer than you believed it to be, that ceremony, and you truly are bound to one another because of something greater than the both of you.

You offer the only defense you can, “You weren’t listening.”

“You weren’t making any sense.”

You open your mouth to argue, but…he does have a point. Ivar nods in acceptance of your helpless shrug, a short laugh leaving his lips.

You cling to that sound the same way you did when you were younger, and your heart skips a beat the same way it did then.

“I’ve missed you.” You confess in the comfortable silence that follows. Ivar’s eyes fall from yours, and there’s an almost overwhelmed edge to his smile that makes your heart skip a beat.

You remember that smile.

_You lean back, still feeling your heart beating madly in your chest from the soft press of his lips on yours. Ivar doesn’t meet your gaze, but he offers a small smile that trembles on his lips, a blend of nerves and awe._

_“Um…” Is all that leaves his lips, and your smile widens._

_But because you could never keep your mouth shut, you press, “Can I kiss you again?”_

He offers a hum in response, but nothing more.

“Are you and your shieldmaidens staying?”

“Staying?”

“Here, in The Isles,” He offers. He drinks from his horn and keeps his hand holding it by his mouth, hiding part of his expression from you. Familiar. He shrugs with the shoulder of his good side, “With our army.”

“With you?” You press. If there is one thing that hasn’t changed is how unable to hold your tongue you are.

Ivar considers you in silence, guarded and giving away nothing. He stays silent for so long you almost expect him to say he has no interest in having you stay with him.

But eventually he betrays a small smile, “Husband and wife belong side by side, do they not?”


End file.
